Good Until it Hurts
by Arsosah
Summary: Don't talk about reformatory. Don't ask me about what happened. I will never tell anyone about the bad stuff, but the good stuff... that's what really shuts me up.
1. Maybe a Hopeless Case

I'm a little nervous putting this story up, since I'm leaving my "comfort zone" and try a new character, but also because of the subject. I'm aware of that this story won't be for everyone, but I really hope that you will like it. I should give some warnings, but I don't want to give anything away, so...

There will be some grammatical errors. Some because I still have a little problem with English and just don't see them, but also some that are on purpose, since I want it to be Curly's voice. (And yes, I took the freedom to give him a "real" name).

I don't own the Outsiders. I hope you will enjoy, and please review and tell me what you think :)

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><p><strong>Good Until it Hurts<strong>

**1. Maybe a Hopeless Case  
><strong>

_It's a worse pain than you can think of. Worse than every blow I can imagine. Slam me into a wall; punch my stomach; break my nose; kick me in the balls; put a knife in me and twist it._

_I know it wouldn't hurt like this. _

_Nothin' can hurt like this.  
><em>

xXx

The office is too hot and the chair I sit on too hard, making me fidget while I wait. He has other chairs standing tucked in the corner, looking a lot more comfy, but they are for visitors and not guys like me. I bet he likes seeing me squirm, so he can pretend it's because of his stare and not because of my ass getting numb.

He keeps trying to catch my gaze or something, and I keep looking around, even though I know Tim usually says that I should stare them in the eyes and don't show weakness.

_Don't look so fuckin' nervous, Curly!_

I ain't nervous. It's never anything to do with that, but I can't explain why. Maybe I just like to look at things, and Tim ain't here to tell me to stop it either, so I let my eyes roam. Not that I haven't seen it all before; I've been in here plenty of times. But I still look at the bookshelves with the folders and the ugly painting on the wall and the window facing the parking lot. He has some frames on his desk, and I know it's pictures of his wife and kids. Last week I heard about a guy sneaking into his office and drawing mustaches on them, and I think of maybe turning the photos around and see if they're still there. I start to reach out to them, but then Mr. Shaffer starts to talk and I have to drop my hand back.

"I was hoping to not be seeing you again this week, Vincent," he says, breaking the silence. "I was hoping you would stay out of trouble after our last talk."

Why don't he stop calling me into his office then? Then he don't have to see me. I shift on the chair for the tenth time or so, kicking on its leg with the back of my sneaker. I ain't sure why I'm here yet. If it's 'cause of the gum I put in Shelley's hair. Or 'cause I smoked in the back of the gym building. Or maybe 'cause I've been tardy to almost all my classes since school started a month ago, if I show up at all. It's really a lot of things adding up.

But I get to know what it is about when Mr. Shaffer opens his desk and picks up a paper, placing it on the desk between us. I lean forward, looking at it curiously. There's like a million red circles drawn on it.

"This is your latest English assignment."

I start to grin.

"You think this is funny?"

"Nope," I lie, leaning back again, but I can't wipe the smile off my face. I wish I had seen my English teacher's face when she read it. I bet there are words on there she has never heard before. She should thank me. Teachers always nag about the importance of learning new things and I think that should go both ways.

I listen absent-mindedly as Shaffer gives the same boring speech as always, it ain't like I haven't heard it before. He could go straight to my punishment and stop wasting our time, 'cause when he finally gets to it, a weeks detention and another paper to write about _respect and using proper words_ (what the hell _proper _means), all I have to do is nod. I look at my assignment, wanting to take it with me and maybe show it to Tim, but Mr. Shaffer takes it and puts it away.

"Please try to stay away from here next week, okay?" he sighs, but it sounds like he thinks I'm a hopeless case.

"Yeah, sure," I say anyway. Next time he calls me in maybe I should just not turn up. I wait for him to say that I can go, and finally he raises his hand and waves me off. I stand up and shuffle toward the door, but just as I put my hand on the handle, Mr. Shaffer speaks up again.

"And Vincent? You do know you spelled most of those..._words _wrong, right?"

xXx

"We should go smash up his car or somethin'," Davy says nasally as he struggles to keep the blood into his nose. Or at least that's what it looks like, the way he presses his hand against his nostrils like his life depended on it. It don't help much, the blood keeps seeping through his fingers and drops to the ground. "Just to show'im not to mess with us."

"You're stupid," I say, thinking of how Mr. Shaffer's parking spot lies where everyone can see it from the windows. It's not like I _like _getting caught doing things, even if it happens a lot.

"I ain't the one spellin' _fuckin'_ without a C."

"Who says it needs a C?" I grunt. "You say it the same anyway."

"It's rules and stuff, man, you should know it," Davy says, but I know he just tries to put me down. His grades are no better than mine. Besides, who cares about rules other than to break them.

I light up a cigarette, stare at the two boys fighting in front of us, Ben circling around Donnie with his fists in front of his face. Donnie's only twelve but he fights good, especially against Ben who jumps around too much. I guess it helps that the kid is so big, too. I would never agree to fight with him in front of others, and maybe look like a fool when losing to someone two years younger than me.

I actually did once, some years ago. Fought him, I mean. And I guess I lost, too, since I bled the most and was the only one lying cursing on the ground at the end. But nobody saw it and I threatened to beat up his kid brother if he ever told anyone, so he didn't. I don't know if it was because he got scared of what I said or if he just didn't care about his reputation.

"Mom's gonna kill me if I ruin this shirt," Davy complains beside me, looking down at all the red splotches. "Shit. It's the third this month."

"Just put it in cold water," I tell him. "It washes off the blood. I've seen Ma do it plenty."

"You givin' me a fuckin' housewife's advice?"

I scowl at him and he shuts up.

Donnie slams out his fist, hitting Ben right in his jaw. We watch as his head snaps back and he goes down, cursing while clawing at the grass, the other hand checking his chin and mouth and if all his teeth are still in place. Donnie turns his head and grins at us, and I make sure to glare hard enough so he won't dare to ask me if it's my turn now. I ain't a coward, that's not it. One day I'll take him, I'm sure of it, but then it will be a real fight and not just us messing around. In a real fight I can do what it takes to win and no one can say anything about it.

"You know that big house close to that place we used to steal apples when we were kids? With the crazy lady?" Davy says.

"Yeah, why?" I grumble, taking a drag on my cigarette as another kid steps up to Donnie.

"That's where he lives."

"What? With the crazy lady?"

Davy removes his hand with a roll of his eyes. "_No_. The big house. I've seen his car there."

"Who's car?"

Davy sighs and shakes his head. "Who's stupid now? I mean Mr. Shaffer's."

xXx

When I come home from the park that evening there's no dinner. Ma has locked herself into the bedroom again to cry, and Tim sits in the couch, watching something on the TV. Not that he would cook anything anyway, but he could at least drive somewhere and get me a hamburger. But he don't answer when I ask him, and only flips me off when I try to make him lend me his car keys so I can get one myself. Sometimes I wonder what his reason was to teach me how to drive when I was twelve, 'cause he never lets me do it.

"What's up with Ma?" I wonder instead, but he still keeps quiet, so I shrug and go and make myself a sandwich. We're out of both milk and peanut butter but that's okay. I'm used to it. I take my food with me and go back to the living room, sitting down on the arm of the armchair.

"What you lookin' at?"

"Don't you ever shut up?" Tim says, but he don't sound angry. He leans back, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder at Ma's closed door. "You tell Angie to not disturb her tonight, okay?" When I open my mouth to tell him there's no use 'cause she never listens to me, he frowns. "I fuckin' mean it, Curly."

I only grumble in reply, turning my attention to my sandwich.

Tim leaves shortly after that, and I feel a little hurt that he didn't ask me to come with. I shut off the TV and sit down on the couch, put my feet up on the table and light up another cigarette. Sometimes he's all about bringing me along and treat me like he does his guys, but then he suddenly turns around and seems to only see me like his annoying kid brother again.

I put out the cigarette against the table top and rise. I won't sit home, babysitting Ma and Angie. If he wants someone doing that he can do it himself. But my anger only takes me as far as the door, 'cause when I grip the handle it's like something is holding me back. It's not like he will be mad at me if I walk out, he will probably never even notice it if I make sure to come home again before he does. But maybe it's the sniffs coming from Ma, or that I know Angie sits upstairs by herself and that Pa can come bursting in at any minute, cursing and drunk from the bar. With a groan I go back to the couch and throw myself down on it.

I can't wait to grow up and leave this fucking house.


	2. Smashing Windows

**Good Until it Hurts**

**2. Smashing Windows  
><strong>

I fucking hate mornings. When the alarm clock goes off I grab my pillow and place it over my head, trying to shut out the noise. From his side of the room, Tim mutters something I can't really hear 'cause of the fabric covering my ears, and then the buzzing finally stops. I hear how he rises and the rustle of clothes, but I stay where I am, too tired to do anything else other than hate the people who decided school should start this early.

"C'mon, Curly, get up." I feel Tim grab my ankle and shake it roughly, not stopping until I irritatingly yank away the pillow and blink up at him.

"I ain't goin' to school today," I grumble. "I wanna drop out."

"Yeah?" Tim gives me a smirk. "What you gonna do instead, bum around and get in trouble?"

"You can talk to your boss," I mutter, for maybe the hundredth time or so, staring up at the ceiling. "You can say I'm sixteen and he'll hire me. He won't care."

As always, Tim ignores it. "Get dressed," he just orders me. "You got five minutes if you wanna ride with me."

With a sigh I drag myself out of bed, finding my jeans and t-shirt on the floor. They ain't so dirty since yesterday, so I put them on along with my sneakers and leave the room. Maybe I should let Tim drive me and then ditch - I'm already in trouble anyway. I have written maybe five words on the paper Shaffer asked me to write and I know he wants me to give it to him today. Problem is that I don't even know where I put it, so I guess I can look forward to another week in detention. That's just great, 'cause I fucking love to spend my days in classrooms.

Downstairs Angie has locked herself into the bathroom as usual, so I ignore my bladder and rummage the cupboards for breakfast. Our table is still filled with dirty dishes since yesterday, so I jump up on the counter to eat - a few crackers and some juice that I found. I drink it straight from the package - it tastes a bit funny, but I'm thirsty, and Pa would kill me if I touched his beers. I guess I can't blame him - I would kill for some eggs and bacon, if Ma ever made it in the mornings. But she's too busy fighting with him in the bedroom.

Tim comes in and starts the percolator, turns his head and shouts for Angela. Then he shakes his head, looks at me and mutters, "Three minutes."

That means I will have time for a cigarette. We smoke indoors all the time, but I prefer to be outside. I don't know why, I just do. So I jump down from the counter and walk through the living room and out the front door. I light up my last cigarette and smoke it, but when I'm finished there's still no sight of Tim and Angie. So I start picking at the chipped paint on the house wall while I wait, trying to decide if it's worth going to school today or not. I guess not.

It takes a lot more than three minutes for them to show up, and when they finally do they're arguing about her make-up. As always.

"Ma lets me wear it," Angie mutters, glaring daggers at Tim as they walk past me. "She even gave it to me. I don't know why you care so much about my lipstick."

"'Cause you're fuckin' twelve years old, that's why." Tim unlocks his car on the curb, gesturing at us to get in. "And I know damn well you lifted it yourself."

Angie bats her eyes. "And who taught me to do that?"

xXx

"What about these?" Davy asks, turning to me with another pair of sunglasses on his nose, their frame white and heart-shaped. I shake my head and burst out laughing, so he gives me a playful shove hard enough that I stumble into the magazine rack behind us.

"Boys!" The old man behind the counter narrows his eyes, and I grab Davy's arm to gain my balance.

"What?" Davy says cocky. "We haveta try'em on, don't we?"

"You break the stuff, you pay for it."

Davy mutters something under his breath and puts the sunglasses away again, and we walk over to the candy bars instead. Picking out a few, we let some of them slip into our pockets, glancing at the cashier so he won't notice. Davy raises his eyebrows at me and I nod.

I wait by the magazines 'til he has dropped his stuff onto the counter, and then I absent-mindedly make my way over to the smokes. Almost all the stores around keep them close to the cashier, making it harder to lift them, but it's all about planning. The old man in this corner shop seems to be aware of the game, though, 'cause he don't stop glaring at me.

"Hey, I want to buy this stuff," Davy says, trying to grab his attention. "How much is it?"

"No. You have to go."

"Geez, I've got money."

For a second the man turns his head down to the candy bars in front of him, and my hand works fast while Davy puts his hand into his pocket and drags up a wrinkled piece of paper.

"Whoops," he grins. "Looks like I forgot my wallet."

The cashier gapes at him and I step up, punching at Davy's shoulder with my fist.

"C'mon, man, they ain't got nothin' in here. Let's go."

I swear, the man goes redder than a tomato, but he's too fucking old to do anything more than shout at us.

"You have to pay for that you know," he growls, turning to the phone on the wall behind him. "I know what hoods like you are up to. If you try to leave I'll call the police!"

"Yeah, that's so scary," I tell him with a grin, grabbing Davy by the sleeve and dragging him along. Out in the streets again I make sure the cashier can see me through the window as I pick up the pack of Kools I slipped into my pocket while he wasn't looking. He won't do anything. He can try to call the fuzz, but we will be long gone before they show up and he knows it.

"Stupid fucker," Davy says, taking a cigarette from me.

We go to the park 'cause that's where we mostly hang out when ditching school. We can't be at my house and Davy has a million younger siblings running around, so we mostly avoid his place, too.

I leap up on a bench to sit on top of the back, squinting a little in the sun as we share the candy bars. It's lunch-time and I'm real hungry, but the chocolate almost don't help at all. I wish I had asked Tim about some money this morning, but then he probably would have figured I planned to ditch and he would argue about it. Sometimes I don't know what's up with him and school, 'cause he left as soon as he could, and before that I know he ditched a lot, too.

"I'm bored," I say, throwing away the last candy bar wrapper and watching it land in the grass. "I wish we had a car."

Davy turns his head to look at me, and then we both start to grin.

xXx

Cursing loudly I walk inside the house, pressing my t-shirt hard against my forehead. It hurts like hell, and I can't even focus my gaze on something before I feel nauseous. This is so stupid - I know I shouldn't have let Davy drive, he always forget that car's have brakes. It ain't like I don't want to go fast, but sometimes you have to stop, too.

In the bathroom I slowly lower my hand, dropping the shirt to the floor to look at the wound across my eyebrow. It looks nasty, but at least it seems to have stopped bleeding.

"Shit, Curly, what happened?"

"Nothin'," I mutter, turning on the tap in the sink to wash myself off.

"You got blood everywhere," Angie says happily. "You get beat up?"

"No."

"Did ya lose?"

"_No_. Fuck, it wasn't a fight, all right?" I turn around and put my hand on her shoulder, pushing her backwards out of the bathroom. "Go play with your dolls or somethin'."

She rolls her eyes. "I don't play with dolls anymore."

Like I care. I slam the door shut in her face, then have to lean my shoulder against it as the world starts to spin. But it calms down soon enough, and I turn to the sink again, starting to wash my hands and face. I take the towel hanging on the hook on the wall, wetting a corner of it and clean around the wound, too. I look in the cupboard to see if we have some band-aids, but we got nothing. Not even a fucking aspirin for the pain.

It's not that late, not even dark outside, but I decide to crawl to bed anyway. I must have fallen asleep pretty fast, 'cause I don't remember anything more until Tim wakes me up again, but this time a lot gentler than he does in the mornings. As soon as he sees that my eyes are open, he grabs my chin and tilts my head, to look at my eyebrow.

"I'm all right," I mutter, pushing his hand away.

"Angie says you got jumped." He sits down on my bedside, and I push myself up to sit, too, frowning as the room starts to spin again. But then I stop, 'cause it only makes the throbbing worse.

"I wasn't."

Tim sits quiet. He knows me too well, 'cause when he is like that, for some reason I always start to babble sooner or later. And now I'm fucking tired and just want him to leave me alone so I can go back to sleep.

"Davy drove the car into a fuckin' stop sign and I hit my head against the window. That's all."

"You don't have a car."

I don't answer to that, 'cause he already knows how we got it. There's only one alternative, really.

"Someone see you?" he probes instead.

I snort at him. "I ain't stupid." I lift my hand and put my fingertips against the wound. "'Sides, you've done it, too."

"Difference is I don't get caught a lot."

"We weren't caught either. I said no one saw us."

"This time," Tim says. "You've done a lot of stupid shit, Curly. How many times did we have to come an' get you down at the station this summer?"

I shrug, even if I know it's five times. But who cares about it, it was just some smaller things - two times shoplifting and two times 'cause of fighting, then that time we scared some elderly people on the bus, but that was an accident. We weren't even _arrested_ then, just hauled in so they could call our parents.

"Just start to use that thick head of yours," Tim says, starting to grin, snapping at my forehead with a finger. "For other things than smashin' windows, okay?"

* * *

><p><em>Sorry it took a while to put this up. Thank you so much for reading, reviews are really appreciated :)<br>_


	3. Better This Way

**Good Until it Hurts**

**3. Better This Way  
><strong>

"Vincent Shepard."

Startled by the sudden voice I jerk my head up, just to find Mr. Shaffer standing at the bottom of the stairs. He's staring hard at me, and I hurry to rip the cigarette out of my mouth and throw it away.

"Hey, Mr. Shaffer," I say sheepishly, 'cause school started about fifteen minutes ago. I really thought everyone was inside already, making it safe to sit by the front doors and smoke for a while without anyone noticing. But I guess I was wrong.

"You're not in class?" Mr. Shaffer starts to climb up the stairs, and I get up on my feet and move out of the way so he can walk past me.

"I was goin' to," I lie, shuffling after him as he holds up the door for me, but I stop just inside, unsure of what to do now. I haven't been here for a week 'cause of my head, and maybe some other things like not wanting to go, and it feels weird that he don't grab me by my collar and drag me to his office for another punishment.

"Well, go on," Mr. Shaffer says, but I linger by the door, pushing my hands down into my pockets.

"Vincent, go to your class room!" He sounds impatient this time, gesturing with his hand down the empty hallway.

"Fine," I mutter. I start walking, but not so fast since I don't really remember where I'm supposed to be. It's Thursday so... I think it's English. Just great - that teacher really hates me.

I hear Mr. Shaffer's steps behind me, and when we walk past the stairs up to his office he still don't turn away, and that makes me even more irritated. He don't have to follow me, I'm going, ain't I? I reach the door I think is the right one and rip it open, walk inside the room without a word. I go straight to my place in the back and plop down on the chair, growling a "What?" when I hear my name being said again.

"You got something to say to me?" Ms. Harris wonders, tapping her fingers against her teacher's desk in the front.

I just stare at her, 'cause I didn't hear any question, and I don't think I could answer anyway. She always asks me the hard ones, and I think she do it on purpose, too. Just like she always makes me read out loud when she knows I have some trouble with that.

"You're late," she states. "When someone is late, you excuse yourself for interrupting." A lot of kids has turned their heads to look at me, but I glare back at them 'til they turn around again.

"Sorry I'm late, then."

She looks like she has swallowed a lemon or something. "Pick up your book, chapter three page twenty-five and start reading the first paragraph."

"I don't have a book."

"I gave you a book in the beginning of this semester." Her eyes narrow behind her thick glasses, I can see it all the way from where I sit, but I just lean back in the chair, saying nothing. She can either ask someone else to lend me a book, throw me out or let me be, and I don't care what she do, as long as it's not the first.

"Next time bring it to class, or I will give you a fee for it," she finally decides sourly. I just smirk at her as she turns to some other poor guy and asks him to read for her, thinking that if I had any money, she would be the last person I would give them to.

xXx

I'm in a really bad mood when school is over. Mr. Shaffer pulled me into his office at the end of the day, just when I thought he wouldn't bother. But it wasn't his usual lecture this time, instead he tried to threat me to start to show up at my classes and do what I'm told in school, or else he would have to take actions. He asked if I don't want to be able to move up to High school some day, and I told him no, that it don't matter, 'cause I couldn't tell him the truth. I really don't want to be held back another year and make the other guys in school think I'm even dumber. I know I don't read so good and it's a lot I don't really get when my teachers talk... so maybe it's true, then. Just that others don't have to know.

So it all turned into a lot of cussing (from me) and he trying to be a moron, saying he will call my parents for a meeting tomorrow. He hasn't called home for years, knowing they don't care what I do anyway, so I don't know why he thinks they will show up this time. But if they don't, it won't be fun for me. That's what he said. Maybe not the exact words, but I got his point.

Of course I run into Ponyboy Curtis on the way home. It ain't his fault, I know that, but it's weird that even if he's a year younger than me, he will move up to Will Rogers next year and I won't, 'cause he was bumped up a grade almost the same time I was held back. Guess that makes him a genius or something. At least he don't mock me, I don't think he ever would 'cause he's kind of nice, even if almost always quiet. Not that anyone would mock me to my face - they would lose some teeth if they did.

I walk a little faster until I have caught up with him.

"Hey Curtis," I say, and he snaps his head around to look at me, looking relieved when he sees that it's me. Maybe he thought I was a Soc sneaking up on him. He carries an awful lot of books, and I nod at them. "You got that much homework?"

"Uh, I was at the library," he says. Then real quiet, "It ain't homework."

I stuff my hands into my pockets, nodding like I get it. But I don't. It would take me years to read all those books, and I would hate it the whole time. I don't understand how people can read for fun.

"What you doin' later?" I ask him instead, and he shrugs with one shoulder. "Me and some of the guys are hangin' out at the park. You could come."

I don't really know why I'm asking. It ain't like he has some tough reputation, but I know who his brothers and friends are, and I know he hangs out with Dallas Winston sometimes. And I think it might look good, too, if I have some smarter friend. Then people could think I do bad in school 'cause I don't give a damn, not 'cause it's too hard. Even if it's both.

He's still quiet, so I add, "You can bring that other guy, too. The black-haired one."

"Johnny."

"That's right. So you comin' then?"

"Yeah, I might," he says. "After dinner and stuff."

We come to the street where he has to turn to get home, and we talk a little more until he mentions his mom will wonder where he is if he don't come home soon, 'cause he forgot to tell her about going to the library.

"That must suck," I tell him, and he looks a bit bewildered at me. "To have someone supervising you all the time," I explain.

He just laughs at that, and then he says bye and turns into his street. I stand there looking after him, not knowing why I suddenly feel a bit empty. But then I try to shake it off - it's much better my way. To come and go as I want, with no nagging about school and no questions about nothing. It's a lot better to only have Tim, 'cause even if he pretends he wants to know everything, he never really asks anything either.

xXx

I have never liked Gene Barnes. The only good thing about him is the booze he always brings when we meet up, so I guess I can stand the guy because of that. I just have to stay away from him, so I won't start a fight when he starts bragging about his second cousin being a River King - or at least he was before he went to jail. It annoys me to hell, 'cause it don't make _him _a part of that gang, and definitely not make him some kind of leader of our group of friends. But he seems to think so.

Too bad some of the others seem to think that, too, 'cause they are all sucking up to him when he hands around whiskey bottles and on rare occasions some joint that don't make me feel nothing.

I sit grumbling with Davy on one side and Ponyboy and his friend on the other, watching the rest listen to one of Gene's stupid stories. I bet he makes half of it up - he never beat down two Socs by himself and stole their wallets. But the little kids like Brian and Jimmy seem to swallow it all.

I close my eyes and take another gulp from the bottle I'm holding, feeling it burn less down my throat than the gulps before. I'm pretty drunk. Davy's always too careful about drinking 'cause of his ma getting crazy if she finds out, and Pony and Johnny only wanted a sip or two, not wanting to come home with smelling breaths. But it means more for me, so I don't complain.

Okay, so I do complain a little when Davy starts to bring up school and wonder what Shaffer said to me, since I'm so fucking quiet about it. I know I use to tell him what that idiot goes on about when I'm in his office, but this time - I mean, what can I say? Davy's in the same grade as Pony, they won't understand.

"He said nothin', all right?" I mutter. "The usual stuff."

"He must have said somethin'," Davy persists. "You're so pissed."

"So? I can be pissed about other things." I raise the bottle again, drink what's left of it and throw it away. It don't come so far. Then I struggle to get up on my feet, having to put a hand on Davy's shoulder to do so.

"Where you goin'?" he wonders, but I don't turn my head, 'cause if I do I'm sure I would drop.

"You said where he lives."

"Hey, wait up!"

The three of them come after me, but they don't stop me as I thought they would. They just walk beside me as we leave the park, and I throw up twice on the street, glad that Gene didn't see it. But I feel a little more sober after, especially since the air is kind of cold.

We're about halfway there when Ponyboy starts with his having to go home again, 'cause it's apparently a school night and he has a curfew. I tell him to screw it, who cares, right, not my ma and pa, but he don't say anything, just looks at Johnny for support.

"See you some other time, Curly," Johnny says quietly, and I want to flip them off but I don't.

"Yeah, whatever."

At least Davy stays. And he better, 'cause it was all his idea, wasn't it, to show Shaffer not to mess with me.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading and reviewing, and sorry for the grammar mistakes that are not on purpose.<br>_

_To Shirley Fry - I know there are writers who call him Charles in their stories, but Hinton never gave him any other name than Curly. So it gives us the freedom to choose if it's his real name or a nickname - and if we want, make up a name for him. I see Curly as a nickname, and I will keep calling him Vincent, since I like that name and think it fits him :)_


	4. Bad Boy

**Good Until it Hurts**

**4. Bad Boy  
><strong>

Tim's real quiet as we drive home. Ma don't say anything either, but I didn't think she would - she's only with him 'cause Tim ain't eighteen yet and can't bail me out himself. I know she hates to leave the house, especially when she has bruises on her face, and if Tim had let her I'm sure she'd rather let me stay at the station than come and get me.

I sit in the backseat, licking at the wound on my lip and rubbing my wrists a little, trying to pretend I don't see Tim looking at me through the rearview mirror. I know I screwed up a bit yesterday, but so what? It ain't like I planned it to happen. Not the other part with the fuzz, at least. But it's obvious what he's thinking, and I wish that he didn't, 'cause it makes me think of it, too.

As soon as he has parked on the curb I'm out of the car, passing Angie at the front door on her way to school. She wrinkles her nose at me, saying something I can't hear since I slam the door shut after me. Up in my room I rip off my t-shirt, trying to decide if I want a shower first or sleep, but then I think sleep is better. I didn't get any last night 'cause of the moron in the next cell - he just kept crying and cussing and wouldn't shut up.

The door opens and Tim steps inside, still watching me with that expression. I sit down on my bed, wishing he could just leave me alone. But it's his room too, although it's morning, and he shouldn't be here.

"I thought you were supposed to go to work," I mutter, starting to rub at my wrists again.

Tim cocks an eyebrow. "I was. But I got a phone call yesterday, sayin' I had to come and get my brother."

I glare at him. "If they called yesterday, why did you let me spend the night?"

"You had trouble with that?" He smirks at me, and I snort, turning my gaze down at the floor instead.

"No. I don't care." Only that I do. I hated it.

"You know I can't get Ma to come with that late." He leaves the doorway and steps up to me, crouches down. "Let me see that."

I stop rubbing my wrists. "It ain't nothin'," I tell him. I know I shouldn't have struggled like I did, but I was drunk, and it ain't that bad, just a little bruises and tearing where the handcuffs cut my skin off. It's more itching than hurting anyway.

"What about your mouth?"

I shrug. The cut on my lip might have happened when the cop tackled me when I tried to run, or when he threw me onto my stomach over the hood of their car as he arrested me, I ain't sure. I ain't sure what Tim is thinking either, 'cause he holds his face blank now.

"Better get used to it." He gets up on his feet again, looking down at me. "Sleepin' someplace else. They gonna lock you up this time, Curly."

"How do you know?" I try. "I heard Mr. Shaffer sayin' he won't press charges."

Tim just shakes his head and snorts like I don't get it. But this time I do, more than he thinks.

"I'm tired," I mumble. "I'm gonna get some sleep." And I lie down and drag the cover over my head, 'cause I don't want him to see I feel a little freaked out about maybe going to be sent away.

xXx

I try to think of the good things about going to juvie. Like my rep. I'm mostly known as Tim's little brother, and I hate that sometimes. Everyone just compare us, and 'cause Tim is Tim, I always lose. I'm younger, not as smart as him, or a leader like him, and I don't have my own gang. Not that I want to - I want to be with the Shepards, 'cause I mean, I should be. I'm a Shepard as much as him. But the rare times he lets me come with when they meet up, he don't really involve me. Only in fights and stuff, but it ain't like he treats me like I ever gonna be his right hand. It's obvious to me, and it means it's obvious to everyone else, too. But that might change now.

Some of his guys has been in reformatory before, and I know they don't come home as better people. Like John, who went in for a couple of months half a year ago, he tells me if I just show'em I ain't someone to mess with, it will be a good experience. He says the worst stuff are the early mornings and the food, and the ones treating you like you need charity.

I don't want to seem nervous and ask a lot of things, so I just sit silent, sucking on my cigarette and hoping he will tell me some more. And he do. He says to make sure not to piss off the guards too much, 'cause they don't forget anything, and to hide my smokes if I can get a hold of any, then he sits quiet for a while, tapping his hand against his knee. But then he seems to decide something, and he lowers his voice a little and leans in closer.

"And don't, ya know... don't be _alone_ in there. Some stuff's goin' on..." He trails off, hurries to add, "But you'll be alright, Curly."

I wait for him to explain what he means, but he only leans away again and puts a new cigarette into his mouth.

I still feel a little weird when it's time to go to court. Ma don't come, but strangely, Pa does. Maybe 'cause they said I have to have a parent with me, but I'm still surprised he ain't so drunk that he forgot.

I know Tim would prefer we took his car, but he rides with us anyway in Pa's, sitting in the backseat with me, listening to Pa calling the fuzz all the bad names he can think of. But he also says it was great I kicked that fucker good when he arrested me. I ain't so sure about that anymore, but I can't change that it happened, just deal with what happens next.

I have my own attorney that the court chose for me, and we met once last week. He's an old, bald guy, wearing a wrinkled suit and looking tired. He calls me Victor first, and I tell him my name is Curly, not fucking Victor.

"It's Vincent," Tim says, frowning at me. But what? The stupid guy should have remembered my name if he's going to defend me.

"Right. Vincent," my attorney says. "Well. Your case will be up in twenty minutes. Anything you wonder about?"

I shake my head and sit down on one of the benches lining the hallway. He told me the first time we met how this is supposed to go - I should tell the truth and plead guilty since they have witnesses and I was caught at the scene, so if I say I'm innocent they will just penalize me harder.

I don't ask how hard he thinks they will penalize me if I do what he says.

It ain't a lot of people in the court room. There are some guys in suits, the cops that arrested me, Mr. Shaffer and a few other people. I look for the jury but I don't find any.

"Where's the jury?" I ask the attorney, but he just looks at me like I'm dumb.

"There is no jury in juvenile court," he says shortly.

So I sit a little easier in my chair. No jury means no real trial, right? So maybe it won't be so bad. I throw a glance over my shoulder and see that Tim and Pa are the only ones watching from the benches in the back.

We have to stand up when the judge comes in, and then sit down again, and after a little talking the judge looks at me and starts to ask me all these questions about the night a couple of weeks ago, when I trashed Mr. Shaffer's car and assaulted a police officer. He asks about Davy, or he don't say his name 'cause they don't know who was with me, only that a neighbor to Mr. Shaffer - the one calling 911 - said he saw two boys on the driveway.

Like I'm going to tell on him. I say it was only me, that the neighbor must have seen wrong, and then I glance at my attorney 'cause he must know it's a lie. But he don't even react, just flips through some papers lying on the table in front of him.

"Mr. Shaffer is the principal at your school, Cleveland Junior High," the judge says. "I know he has called you into his office multiple times during your time in school. Is this why you chose to vandalize his car?"

I glance at Mr. Shaffer, remembering how he told the cops to take it easy with me when the cops arrested me and he saw that I was bleeding.

"I was just drunk," I say, looking back at the judge. "I don't remember why I did it."

"Drunk? You're fourteen years old. Where did you get the liquor?"

I press my lips together, starting to think that maybe it's better I shut up.

They talk to Mr. Shaffer but he only seems to feel sorry for me. He says I'm not a bad kid, but that I might need some help to get into the right tracks of life and that he don't think them arresting me will help me with that.

But it seems they don't care so much about his slashed tires and smashed headlights. It seems they think the worst is that I kicked the cop in the balls. They don't say balls, but I'm sure I hit him there. Or maybe I didn't, but they talk about it a long time, and the cop says I tried to get away and was really struggling against my arrest and tried to assault both him and his colleague.

I roll my eyes at that, 'cause who wouldn't? So suddenly they seem to think I'm dangerous, too, not just a troublemaker with all the shoplifting and fights I've been in the last summer.

It's kind of unfair, though. All the times before they have let me go and haven't done nothing about anything, and now suddenly they start to talk about my _record_, how I keep getting into trouble and being arrested and that it can't keep happening. I squirm in my chair, and every time I try to place my arms on the table in front of me, the stupid attorney nudges me hard with his elbow.

The judge keeps asking me questions about my other arrests, but I mostly answers like "I don't know" or "I don't remember". My attorney tries to make me look like a good kid anyway, saying stuff about my family like it's my parents fault who let me run around and do what I want, and that really pisses me off. He shouldn't talk like that about them. It seems to make it worse and not better, too, 'cause then the judge says maybe I need someone else to look after me for a while. And _bam_ -

I've got three months in juvie.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading! I hope the court scene came out realistic, I have to admit I'm not really sure how it works... <em>


	5. Welcome to Juvie

**Good Until it Hurts**

**5. Welcome to Juvie**

After I've gotten my sentence they put me in some cell at the courthouse. It ain't no bars there or anything, just a door with a hatch they keep open, and the only thing in it is a hard bench attached to the wall. So I have nothing to do more than either sit down or pace, and I do the latter, kicking at the wall every time I have to turn and walk in the other direction. It's just a small space, so it don't even take five steps.

Three months. That's all I can think of. Three months. But I can do that, be locked up for that time. Just that when I count on it, I realize I won't be home for Tim's birthday, or thanksgiving, or Christmas, _or _fucking New Years Eve.

Not that I care about thanksgiving and Christmas. It ain't like we celebrate any of it that much anyway. Ma will make a turkey and Pa will yell at her for destroying it no matter how it tastes, and maybe smack her around for it if he's in a bad mood, and then it will be as it always is. So I couldn't care less if I'm there or not. But Tim's birthday... it's only a few weeks left. He will have a hell of a party, turning eighteen and all, and I will miss it. That _really _sucks.

Same with New Year, 'cause I figure they don't drink until their heads fall off in juvie. Maybe I can hope for someone getting their hands on some weed, but I don't know if that's even possible.

So no drinks, no joints, no parties or cruisings or nothing. No school but that's the only good thing. Only I guess they maybe have school in juvie. But then it probably won't be any chance to ditch.

I plop down on the bench, lying down on my back and rest one leg over the other, to stare up at the ceiling. The locked door has start to bother me, same as the thought of not being able to just walk away or do what I want for _three fucking whole months._ It's ridiculous, right? I didn't even do anything. Almost. Okay, so maybe I did a little, but nothing that's worth being locked up for.

I stand up and walk up to the hatch, looking out. A guy in some guard uniform stands leaning against the opposite wall, and I call out to get his attention.

"I need to piss," I tell him as he comes closer to see what I want, and he sighs and reaches for the keys in his belt, telling me to step away from the door.

"Hold out your arms," he says after unlocking it, and then I'm handcuffed again. But at least not behind my back this time.

He takes me to a nearby restroom. I wait for him to uncuff me, or at least leave me alone in there, but he don't, and it feels really awkward when I have to pull down my fly and take care of business while he stands watching.

Guess if I knew then what they would do once I came to juvie, I wouldn't see it as _that _bad.

xXx

They take me out into the country, and closer to it, the juvenile detention really looks like a prison - brick buildings with bars in the windows are standing inside of high fences with barbed wires on top. I would lie if I say I don't start to feel even more nervous when I see it, but I don't show it. I know that's the most important thing to do, hide if you're nervous or scared or whatever. You just don't show that in a place like this. So I put a smirk on my face as a guard takes me out of the car and leads me inside, holding a tight grip around my upper arm.

There's some kind of reception where they check me in, and then I'm taken to an almost bare room with two other guards. The first guard takes off the handcuffs and leaves, closing the door firmly behind him.

"Stand against the back wall," one of the others barks immediately, and I almost jump in surprise, but I do as he says and back up, until I'm standing just in front of them.

"Empty your pockets."

"I don't have anything in them," I say, but they keep staring at me until I turn the pockets inside out to show them.

The guard nods. "Take off your clothes."

I blink at him, thinking I must have heard it wrong. "Uh... what?"

He smirks at me. "Take off your clothes. One at the time and hand them over slowly."

I give him a long stare, hesitating. "Here?" I ask, trying to sound more secure than I feel. 'Cause this room is like, grey concrete, and there is nothing more in it than me and them and a small table in the corner.

"No, in the fuckin' White House. C'mon, we ain't got all day."

I still don't move, 'cause they can't really mean I will have to take my clothes off in front of them, shouldn't they walk out or something, but then they stare at me even harder and one of them moves his hand down to his baton. I don't want to start my time here with a beating, so I start to fumble with my shirt and drag it over my head, holding it out for them. The quiet one takes it and starts to examine it closely, but I guess he don't find anything satisfying, 'cause then he just folds it and puts it in a paperbag. They do the same with my t-shirt and jeans and socks and yeah... my boxers. When I don't have anything else to take off, I cross my arms in front of me, putting my chin up, trying to show that I'm not bothered.

But of course I am, especially when they start to throw orders at me.

"Stand straight, hold out your arms and wiggle your fingers."

"Turn your face to the left, bend your right ear forward."

"Open your mouth. Lift your tongue."

At least they don't touch me or anything. It feels humiliating as it is, what I have to do to show I ain't hiding drugs anywhere on or inside my body. So when I'm finally taken to the showers I turn my back at them, feeling totally drained, knowing they're still watching every move I make. And there's nowhere to hide more than to try to cover myself with the soap and the water.

John never told me any of this, but I guess it's not something you talk about, that people will stare at you nude. Maybe everyone knows it already, figuring it out by themselves it will happen, and he thought I would do to. But I didn't. I guess I just don't think about the right things when thinking about stuff.

I feel better once I've gotten my uniform, grey pants and a white sweater, but they ain't done with me yet. I have to wait for a while to get my snapshots and fingerprints taken, and it's another guard watching me this time. He's not much older than Tim, a big guy with a big nose, looking like a total moron. I ignore him where I sit, dragging a hand through my still wet curls, trying to untangle them and smooth them down a bit. My hair gets so messy after a shower, I always need a lot of grease to make it look good again.

"Itchin'?" the guard asks me suddenly, and I drop my hand, looking up at him as he wrinkles his nose. "Wouldn't surprise me, I know where guys like you come from. It's like rat holes, your filthy shitplaces."

"Yeah, you should know, your ma still lives next door," I mutter, and his scorn turns to anger.

"Funny," he snaps.

"That's what she said." I brace myself for his comeback, if it will be with words or fists, knowing it's probably stupid of me to get soucy with a guard. And I think he thinks so, too, 'cause he takes a step forward. But instead of jumping me, he leans down to stare into my eyes.

"You know what ain't funny, though?" he smirks.

I don't answer him, but that don't stop him from continuing.

"Lice. If one filthy kid has it, everyone here gets it. You know what we do to keep them away?"

"Why should I care, I don't have lice."

"You think they care to look if I say I saw you sittin' scratchin' your head?"

"I didn't scratch my head!"

He leans back against the wall again, hooking his thumbs in his belt, grinning bigger now. "Touchy subject, huh? You greaser kids sure like your hair. Betcha you would cry for mommy if we gave you a buzz cut. Ain't that so?"

I have to bite my tongue to not say anything back at him this time, and he keeps smiling that smile, looking real pleased with himself.

xXx

Taking snapshots and fingerprints and going over the rules should be easy, comparing to everything else. But as they move me around again, showing me where to stand and where to look when they take my pictures, and where to put my fingertips on the paper, I really have to strain myself to not lash out in any ways, 'cause I know I would be the one losing if I did. I already have.

Most people maybe wouldn't care about it, getting shaved, but it's all the things adding up that starts to get to me. It's a lot worse than I tought, being here, 'cause every time I open my mouth to say something, someone snaps at me to shut up, and they look at me like I'm dirt. Kinda used to it from other people back in town, but there I can always fight back, show them I ain't no one to mess with, that if they want a fight they can have one. Here, I won't even be able to piss without permission. Here, they cut your hair just because they feel like it.

I have only been here for a few hours, and I feel pretty homesick already.

* * *

><p><em>Sorry for grammar mistakes. And every other mistake. I have done a lot of research, but mostlyonly find stuff on how it is in juvie today, not in the 60s. And some things I have made up, too. But I hope it came out okay anyway. Please leave a review and let me know what you think :)  
><em>


	6. First Night, First Morning

**Good Until it Hurts**

**6. First Night, First Morning**

This is a fucking blast, ain't it? The mattress in my bunk is so thin I can't find any way to lie so the slatted frame won't dig into my bones, and it's cold in here, and too light, and too many guys snoring and farting and wheezing. I guess sharing a room with ten bunk beds in it is a lot better than being locked up by myself in a cell, but still- I'm used to share a room with only Tim, and all this crap makes it hard to fall asleep.

With a sigh I turn to my back again, staring at the bottom of the bunk above me. I really hope it won't break so the big guy sleeping up there will fall down and crush me, but that ain't what bothers me the most. It's the bad feeling from before that won't leave me alone, and I feel really wretched 'cause of it. I thought I was tougher than this - I haven't felt this way since I was a kid and got spanked; on the verge of tears but knowing it would just get worse if I bawled. What is fucking wrong with me? I bet Tim wouldn't feel like this, wouldn't almost embarrass himself if he ended up here. No one I know would.

And then I tense 'cause I hear some muffled noise, and for a second I think that it comes from me, that I wasn't able to hold it in anymore. But when I realize it's someone else, I lean up on my elbows instead, feeling both relieved and confused.

"For fuck's sake, Jake, shut up!" a voice hisses, and the guy in the bunk next to me presses his face down into the pillow and drags the blanket over his head.

"It ain't Jake this time, it's the new guy."

I quickly turn around, look to my left and see another guy standing on the floor between our bunks, smirking at me.

Maybe I ain't the only new guy, but I know he meant me. And maybe it should have made me feel even worse, being singled out and accused of crying when I wasn't, but truth is, I almost feel better when I see the challenge. I fly up from bed, clenching my fists.

"What did you say?" I growl, taking a step closer so he has to back away. He don't get far, though, 'cause his bunk stands only a few feet from mine. For the first time I'm actually glad they haven't turned off all the lights in the ceiling, 'cause it means I can size him up - a little older than me but not much. Taller but kind of chubby, and the fact he stepped away is a good sign. I can take him, easily.

"Wasn't that you, snif-"

I don't let him end the sentence, 'cause there is no way I'm gonna let anyone give me a bad reputation here, and especially not the first night. So I punch him in the face when he's not prepared for it, then in his stomach so he grunts and falls onto his bed, smacking the back of his head in the top bunk as he goes down.

"Shit," I hear him mutter as he tries to fend himself from me, placing one hand against my chest and slugging my face a couple of times with the other. I hardly feel it, I'm so into the fight, almost feeling like myself again. I know I can make my time in here now, know I ain't weak. They haven't put me down yet, and they never will. Another punch and his nose starts to bleed, another one in the same spot, another one and he starts to curl up instead of fighting back.

I throw the last one into his ribs, then back away from him, shaking my hand a little. Both my eye and knuckles start to throb as my heartbeats go down, and I take some deep breaths and swallow. I'm suddenly aware of the silence in the room, but even more so of the steps in the corridor outside, and the key that is put into the door lock.

xXx

It feels like I've only slept for a second when a shrill signal sounds through the room. I rub my good eye while cursing, 'cause six AM is fucking way too early to have to wake up. But it don't seem to bother the others that much, 'cause they have already started to climb out of their bunks without complaining.

"Hey, you! Get out of bed! Now!" A guard stands just inside the open door, glaring at me, and I sigh and sit up, forcing myself to swing my legs over the side. The guy next to me throws a glance at me as I almost bump into him when I stand up, his face all blue and swollen.

"What are you lookin' at?" I mutter. He quickly looks away again, and if I wasn't so tired I would have grinned.

"No talking!" the guard shouts, and I turn to my bed instead, trying to remember how it's supposed to look like to make them pleased with it. Yesterday it bugged me to get the bottom of the bunk, but when I see how the guys with top beds struggle to make them look okay, I feel it maybe ain't so bad anyway. But I'm still one of the lasts to finish fixing it up. At least no one tells me to redo it this time, as the big nosed guard forced me to yesterday. He just pointed at wrinkles here and there, and ripped up the sheet again countless of times, telling me to do it better. But what did he expect, I've never made a bed before. At home I just leave it as it is, or Ma fixes it up for me.

As they wait for everyone to get ready, the ones already finished stand in front of their beds, staring straight forward with their hands behind their backs. I do as they do, when a second guard comes standing with the other, barking out an order for us to form a line.

We're taken to the showers first, and everyone starts to undress so I do too, even if it brings back the memories from yesterday. But at least I'm not the only one getting naked this time, and the guards don't stand staring like they did then - instead they stand against one of the walls, talking to each other and ignoring us.

Everyone else is quiet, and I wonder if it's some kind of rule, that we ain't supposed to speak in here. I see how all the guys really try to avoid to look at each other, and I do the same, keeping my gaze down or on the wall, not meeting anyone's eyes. We just take turns in the showers, moving as fast as we can. It feels real strange when I schampoo my head and there's no hair left, but then I think that maybe we ain't allowed to grease it in here, so maybe it's good to have it short, then.

Besides, who cares, right?

After we're done in the showers we get some hard towels to dry ourselves with, and clean uniforms, and then we're taken to the toilets and sinks to piss and brush our teeth and shave if we have to. I don't, yet. But I stare at myself in the mirror, hating how young I look with my hair all gone. The eye that's not bruised looks big and hollow, and I really, really wish I had a cigarette. I don't even remember when I smoked the last time, and I start to think that maybe the feeling I had last night was 'cause of withdrawal, not 'cause this place freaks me out. And that makes me feel a little better, that I nearly bawled 'cause my body wants the nicotine and not for some other stupid reason.

Breakfast is okay. I remember what John said about the food, but even if the porridge is almost cold and the milk is lukewarm, it ain't worse than at home since Ma stopped making breakfast for us. Most days I don't really eat anything until lunch anyway.

I sit by a table with some guys from my own room or cell or what to call it. The no talking rule can't be used in here, 'cause everyone talks or shouts or throws sandwiches to each other over the tables.

Everyone leaves me pretty much alone first, but when the shrill signal sounds again and we raise and grab our trays, a guy moves up beside me on the way to the counter.

"Hey, new guy, what's your name?"

I glance at him. I don't think I've seen him before, but I can't be sure.

"Curly," I say, and he lifts one eyebrow.

"What kind of name is that?"

I drop my tray in the pile on the counter, and he do the same. "It's my name," I say shortly, turning my back at him.

But he ain't done asking, apparently, and not done following me. "What you in for?"

I think it through while we leave the cafeteria, discovering that we have to wait in a line again. I don't know what they usually do in places like this, if I should brag and make it sound worse as I would have out in the streets, or if I should tell the truth. But then I think the truth maybe is good enough, 'cause I bet most of the people here hate school and the fuzz, too.

"Vandalized my principal's car and kicked a cop in the balls and stuff like that."

"What stuff?"

I shrug. "Just stuff."

"No talking in the line!"

I roll my eyes at the guard, crossing my arms. But the guy behind me leans forward and talks lowly into my ear.

"Hey, after school, seek me up in the exercise room, okay? I got somethin' for ya."

I turn my head and look at him, but he has stepped away again, pretending to not have said anything at all.

* * *

><p><em>I'm so sorry for the long wait! I have been working on this chapter for ages, and I'm not even sure I'm pleased with it, but it will have to go now. I guess it's just one of those chapters that refuses to be as I want them to be.<br>_

_And apparently, doc manager doesn't have spell check anymore!? So I hope there is not too much grammar/spell mistakes..._

_Thank you for reading! And a little late Happy New Year :)_


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